Page 111 of Every Silent Lie

“Not your place?”

“No.”

I cringe at the snow before me. His place is cosier. Nicer. Bigger. Better equipped.

“Are you out?” he asks.

“Just visited my mum.”

“In this weather, Camryn?” Then he huffs. “Never mind. How is she?”

How is she?

Such a simple question, but Dec has just provided another life raft. His question makes me feel that I’m not carrying this burden alone. He cares about her because he cares about me. “She’s good today.” I brace myself to tell Dec I’ve signed the papers but decide to wait until tomorrow. At our dinner. At my place.

“That’s great. And you? How’s your cheek?”

“Less sore.”

He hums. “Are you going to ask me what I’d like to eat tomorrow night?”

“Well, since your housekeeper ordered it all, I’m going with my gut and assuming she’s catered for your tastes too, in which case I’ll pull something together from the ingredients she ordered.”

“What did she order?”

“You want me to list it all?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not listing it all,” I say around a laugh. “What are you doing today?” God, I want to see him.

He groans. “Catching up on work.”

I pout to myself. It’s going to be a long twenty-four hours. “Well, have fun with that,” I say lightly, hiding my disappointment. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it.”

I smile. “Bye.” Tapping the edge of my mobile on my chin, I ponder something for a few moments before I take a deep breath of bravery and head the opposite way.

Toward Selfridges.

* * *

I’m frazzled by the time I make it home, weighed down with bags, having braved Tesco too. I head straight for Mr. Percival’s door and swing a bag at it, because the handles are cutting off the blood supply to my fingers. “Come on,” I mutter, hearing the squeak of his walking frame getting louder. The moment he opens the door, a handle on one of my bulging bags gives and the contents crash to the floor. I leave it and face Mr. Percival. “I need you to help me make a birthday cake.”

December 18th

After making Dec’s birthday cake and wrapping Debbie’s gift, I spent last night preparing for this evening. Cleaning, tidying, unpacking more boxes, changing my bed, then preparations for dinner. I got up early, ran, checked on Mr. Percival, who checked on the cake, and then I trudged to work in yet more snow later than usual. It’s got to the point people have no choice but to get on with life, since the white stuff is here to stay for the foreseeable future. The first white Christmas in twenty-five years. I remember the last one so vividly. Dad leaving wet, muddy footprints around the house, Mum fighting her urge to whip out the mop. The absolute magic of waking up on Christmas morning to a winter wonderland. I so desperately wanted that for Noah. He didn’t even get to see it snow in his short life. I fall back against the elevator wall, seeing him in my mind’s eye sitting in the window on Christmas Eve, searching the sky for Santa’s reindeers. I see him setting out carrots and mince pies. That one Christmas when he was just old enough to start to understand. Magical. My lip wobbles, and I quickly get it under control as the doors to the elevator open and whoops of joy and delight snap me out of my daze. Everyone’s here as early as me? Just because it’s Secret Santa day? My God.

I pull my shoulders back and head down the corridor armed with my divorce papers. Wrapping paper’s being tossed aside, and bodies are doubling over to cope with the power of their belly laughter as they reveal their gifts and showcase them.

“Can you put these though the postage machine?” I ask Meredith when I arrive at her desk, sliding the envelope across to her. “First class.” I turn around, pause, then turn back. “Actually, send them Recorded Delivery.” I want to know that Dominic has received and signed his much-loved divorce papers.

“Sure.”

Something catches my eye by her keyboard, and I frown. “Meredith, why is there a bottle of lube and a packet of condoms on your desk?”

Her lips press into a straight line as she reaches for them and slips them into her top drawer. “Secret Santa was trying to be funny.”